“Over there,” you pointed, tired of walking.
“Let’s sit and see what gives this side of town.”
A bar just off the seafront, sparse on splendour.
Plastic chairs and tables on the pavement,
A grizzled barman serving with a grin.
Below us, Friday evening burbled
on the plaza—balls and skateboards
and families in clumps around its fringe.
But, over your left shoulder, I saw
Penthos in a checked shirt, hunched and ashen,
fidget with his brandy and viciously
suck a fag beneath his palm. Hopeless,
helpless, stupefied by fate, he nodded
at a spot that beamed back horror
and mouthed nothings.
But, before surprise succumbed to speculation,
before I thought to nudge you
he crushed his stub, slugged his drink,
slipped money on a saucer and,
unwitting as he entered, left my life.

A pigeon nodded to our table. Poddled
past. No pickings. You sat forward,
wound a wrap around you, smiled.
The evening had clouded.
I’d not noticed. Perception
is provisory and fickle.
A sideway glance can open curious vistas.
At other times from all directions
everything’s the same.